


I've Never Seen Such a Pretty Girl Look So Tough

by OriginalCeenote



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton is a Good Bro and Natasha's Wing Man, F/F, Female Spies, Femslash, Gossip, Infidelity, Mentions of Child Trafficking, Old Timey Product Placement and Ladies Fashion, Past minor character death, Post-Victorian Era, Private Investigation, Tea Parties, Widow13, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 18:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14775017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Sometimes, the best man for the job is a woman. Nat/Sharon





	1. You Walked In. I Woke Up.

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be submitted for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang for 2018, but I have had a hard time finishing it. It was inspired by a beautiful sketch by the talented katharoses. Thank you for being my muse, even though I was too scattered to finish this during the expected timeframe.

Natasha’s footsteps filled the tight, dark office in sharp, fast clicks once she unlocked the door and let herself in. Her cheeks were flushed and hot, and her heart was still pounding, face sore from an afternoon of false smiles. She removed her cyclamen pink eggshell bonnet, heedless of the long, pearl-studded hat pin. She hissed as it nicked her finger, and she sucked the droplet of blood when it appeared on her knuckle. She tried to master the sensations of nausea rising up through her chest, and Natasha tasted bile, but the fragile, shell pink silk dress wasn’t one she could afford to replace. Not until her next job. Natasha rushed into the small WC in the corner of the room and dashed water into the gouged sink with its slightly rusted fixtures. She splashed water against her cheeks, quelling the urge to cast up what little she ate. Cucumber finger sandwiches. None of the society wives served anything else, despite the issues of _Good Housekeeping_ she found spread across their coffee tables.

Every time Natasha decided she’d seen it all, life proved her wrong with a vengeance. 

She eyed herself in the cracked mirror, cheeks still flushed. “Focus, Natalia,” she muttered. She dried off her face and hands on the small tea towel and dabbed on a bit of the rose water from the almost empty bottle. She needed to jot down her impressions and arrange her next contact. Mrs. Gallio invited her to a women’s luncheon at the library the next day at one. More finger sandwiches and flavorless tea. More small talk about the best place to get a pair of baby shoes bronzed or to find the best price on a bar of Pears soap, as though any of the women who ran in that circle was the least bit concerned about _money._

Because one didn’t discuss those things. Except, when they _did_.

Natasha composed herself quickly and sat at the desk, reaching for her journal and fountain pen. She scribbled the date at the top of the page and murmured her impressions aloud as she wrote.

“Frost was chatty today. I think she and Miss Munroe are closer friends than they let on. They stood arm in arm whenever they were within reach of the other. Emma said she witnessed the subject, Marcus Gallio leaving the gentleman’s club at three in the afternoon, disputing his claim that he remained there until six.” 

Natasha had an eidetic memory. Writing down the minor details, such as mannerisms and preferences had helped her in the past. “Selene Gallio is lefthanded. She uses that hand to cut her meat. She wore an opal pendant today that she explained her husband Marcus had given to her as a gift for their third wedding anniversary. Some would consider this an unconventional gift. She has a tiny scar at the left corner of her upper lip. Cosmetics don’t quite hide it.”

There were so many clues that Marcus Gallio couldn’t hide. Not from a woman like Natasha Romanoff.

To the rest of the neighborhood, if you lived in the _right_ neighborhood, Marcus was top drawer. An upstanding member of the community. He followed his father into the textile business. Every store in the city carried bolts of his silks, muslins and wools. The man himself cut a dash whenever he left the house, shoes shined until you could see yourself in the dark leather, gold pocket watch dangling from a slim chain. What Marcus Gallio lacked in looks, he made up for in cunning and charisma, but that didn’t stop the tongues from wagging downtown once Selene, formerly the star of a traveling ballet, began turning up on his arm and riding beside him in his motor car, scarf tails flying. She was tall, statuesque, and had dark eyes that pierced your soul. Her smile was elegant, but _feral_. Natasha felt exposed the first time they’d met in her office. She towered over Natasha, and she spent most of their introduction perusing Natasha’s cramped office, running a slender finger over various objects and trying not to grimace at the dust.

But if you remained on the streets after dark, and spoke to the more colorful locals - the undesirables - you learned a different side of Marcus and Selene. Selene sent his fine suits and shirts out to be cleaned and pressed; the presser at the shop drew Natasha aside, leaning across the counter to murmur over the noise.

“That man thinks he’s a sly one. Don’t think for a minute that I was surprised when I found the lipstick on his collar. The brown wool jacket she picked up yesterday reeked of perfume when he dropped it off. She doesn’t wear that kind, sweetheart.”

“She has expensive tastes,” Natasha agreed. When Selene greeted her at the tea party with a kiss that barely made contact with her cheek, Natasha caught the cloying scent of gardenias. 

“So does he, then!” she barked, giving Natasha’s arm a little swat. “That missus of his ain’t cheap!”

The opal necklace was a testament to that. It was rumored to be an unlucky stone, but it was still precious. Selene entertained the women in her drawing room with gossip, tea, and tiny glasses of cordial, wading among them in gowns too dark and garish for the season. Selene was sharp as a tack. Charming. Knew how to run a household. Stunning.

Yet, Marcus Gallio appeared to want more, and he was searching for it in all of the wrong places. Those places had eyes and ears, and Natasha used them with no compunction.

The presser mentioned to Natasha that Marcus was a regular at the millinery shop on Fifth and Greymalkin. Her best friend Flossie worked there, she told Natasha, and Mr. Gallio recently purchased a top hat, impeccably trimmed with a cream ribbon, and a bright pink eggshell bonnet trimmed in tulle and silk hyacinths.

“When have you ever seen the missus wear girlish pastels?” the presser snorted.

“It’s always nice running into you,” Natasha told her.

“Stay on your toes, sweetheart. Don’t be a stranger.”

Those details went into the journal, too. Natasha was about to refill her nib with ink when she heard the door hinge creak. She looked up from her musings and found Clint in the doorway, watching her with an easy, lopsided smile.

“Don’t you look pretty as a summer afternoon.”

“Do I?” Natasha snorted and shook her head, making him laugh.

“All of the other ladies love that line. They think I’m actually very _charming_.”

“Oh, how’ve you deluded them. Shame on you, Barton.”

“You wound me. I’m not lying, though, Natalia. You _do_ look ravishing.”

“These stockings itch,” she complained bitterly. “And these shoes pinched my toes. I can feel a blister that’s been driving me absolutely mad since about ten this morning.”

“Ah, the burdens of beauty and fashion.”

“You don’t sound sympathetic.”

“I’m really not. And some people in more polite circles would scold you soundly for discussing your underthings with a gentleman.”

“Good thing you’re no gentleman.”

His grin widened. “Good thing, isn’t it? What did you find out?”

“Nothing unusual. He’s not discreet. And his friends aren’t very loyal.”

“Ahhhh.”

“Barton?”

“Yes?”

“Can you straighten that frame?” She nodded to the business certificate hanging on the wall beside the cracked window. Clint reached for it and pulled it down, dusting it off on his sleeve.

“Black Hawk Investigations, Proprietor Clint Barton,” he read aloud with a sigh. He tapped the glass and gestured to Natasha with it. “This still bother you?”

“No. It paints the right picture.”

“Sure, it does.” Clint hung the certificate back up, straightening it and stepping back to admire it again. “No one would ever believe you were my secretary.”

“No one ever visits for long enough to question it.” Natasha gave him an innocent look, batting her gingery lashes at him. “Just tell me how I can help you, Mr. Barton. I’ll do a good job, boss.” Her tone was simpering, and Clint laughed outright.

“Anyone who didn’t know you might be charmed by that.”

“You’re saying you don’t find me charming?”

“That’s what’s kept me alive so far.”

Natasha bit her lip and went back to her journal.

 

*

It wasn’t for lack of trying on Clint’s part.

He cut enough of a dash and had a fine, masculine physique. His blond hair and boyish good looks turned heads whenever he entered a room, but Natasha was decidedly immune. But she had a soft spot for him, just the same, and she found his continuous disappointment in her lack of attraction to him entertaining.

Clint Barton saved her life on the same afternoon that she saved his.

Natasha remembered how her silk dress stuck to her skin in the city’s afternoon heat. It radiated up from the pavement and cobblestones. No amount of cosmetic powder along her nose and cheeks hid their flush or her midsummer freckles, and her auburn curls wilted slightly beneath her eggshell bonnet. Natasha pretended to ignore the whistles from the milk man making his deliveries across the street. He winked. She gave him a stony look as she passed by and walked faster, still graceful in her spool-heeled shoes. She was out and about, unescorted and on the wrong side of town, but as an unmarried woman, with no parents, no grown siblings and no marital prospects, every side of town was “the wrong side of town.”

Natasha stopped for a moment, feeling the sting of a pebble inside her shoe. It threatened to wear a hole in the toe of her stockings, and she couldn’t afford to replace them yet. Not until she took on another assignment. She spent her last ten dollars on the ad in _Ladies Home Journal_ for her agency’s services, posing as the secretary when the man at the copy desk asked for her credentials and business license number. Times were lean, and Natasha was one half a bottle of milk, two slices of bread and a shriveled apple away from starving for the rest of the week. 

She stopped at the edge of an alleyway and took off her shoe, knowing it didn’t look ladylike, and she dumped out the tiny stone, shuddering at the filthy ground. The alley reeked of sour garbage and urine. As she prepared to leave, she heard voices, low, masculine and furtive.

Curiosity prodded her forward. She moved silently past the dented garbage cans and mounds of moldy, discarded newspapers. She turned the corner and stayed close to the wall, listening to the threatening tones. The owner of that voice was built like a brick house and wore a slick gray suit and shiny, dark shoes. His back was to Natasha, and his arm was bent in telltale fashion while the man he spoke to watched him with panicked, pleading blue eyes, hands slightly outstretched.

The revolver had a pearl handle and looked expensive. A gentleman’s weapon, meant more for show than actual results. Natasha watched and listened breathlessly, clinging to the wall and feeling her heart pound. The man in front of the gun was young, not much older than Natasha, certainly, and he wore clothing that was decent but hopelessly wrinkled. He had a cut across his nose and a swollen lip.

“Maybe you didn’t understand what I meant when I said that your rent money was due, Barton.”

“Barney made the payment already.”

“Like hell, he did. I haven’t heard from that rat fink brother of yours in three days, Barton.” 

The young man, Barton, swore at this. “He said he gave you the money!”

“Well, I haven’t got that money you and your brother owe me in my pocket, have I?”

“Look, it’ll take a few more days-”

“No. It won’t.” Natasha heard the low click of the gun and watched him raise it.

“Please, Riley, I’m begging you-”

“Begging doesn’t pay the bills, Barton. And that’s ‘Mr. Riley’ to you. Show me some respect.”

“I know that, sir. Sorry, Mr. Riley, sir. Please, if I could have a few more days, I’ll pay you the rent with interest.”

“I’ve heard you tell me that before.”

“Please, don’t be hasty.”

“I’m not hasty, Barton, but no one’s ever accused me of being a patient man.”

Barton, to his credit, managed to school his expression, still pleading, not never changing even as the tiny, curvy woman snuck up behind Riley and brained him with the trash can lid, smashing it down against his skull so hard that it dented. He crumpled to the ground, and she stepped away gingerly.

“Thank you,” Barton told her, impressed as he was surprised. “You picked the right time to come along, miss.”

“Are you sure he was only after rent?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“I figured as much.”

“So, I’m Clint Barton. Hello.”

“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, sir. I’m Natalia Alianovna Romanova. Or, at least I was.”

He huffed a laugh. “Really?”

She nodded and gave him a little curtsy before chucking aside the trash can lid. The man on the ground groaned, and Natasha picked up the gun instead, training it on him.

“Don’t rush to get up,” she suggested. “You might get a little lightheaded.”

Mr. Riley heard the gun click and realized he’d miscalculated when he assumed Clint Barton had run out of friends.

“You look like you should be having tea in that dress,” Barton told her.

“I’m running late for just that. Very bad form. I’ll never get another invitation again,” Natasha lied.

“Then you need nicer friends.”

“Are you a nicer friend?”

“As long as we’re not confusing ‘nice’ with ‘reputable,’ then fine. Certainly, Miss Romanova. I’m nice enough.”

“Then, I guess that means you’re my friend.”

“Don’t you know who I am?” Riley interrupted as he began to stand, despite her warning. “Don’t make me take that from you, you silly bi-”

Natasha made a sound of annoyance, lowered the gun, and fired a round into his kneecap. He went down with a roar of outrage, convulsing in pain.

“Ah, maybe you shouldn’t have done that…”

“I shouldn’t have come into this alley, either, but you know what they say about hindsight.”

Clint looked puzzled. “No. What _do_ they say about it?”

“We’ll talk about it over tea.”

“All right.”

“Not here.” She was already running, tucking the revolver into her purse. Clint stumbled after her, leaving Riley cursing on the ground.

“You know, I really don’t care much for tea.”

 

*

Riley never threatened Clint again, nor did he try to shake him down again for the rent. When Natasha followed him back to his shabby tenement, she bit back a swear in Russian at the pitiful apartment, two meager bedrooms with a stove that couldn’t possibly be up to code and a toilet that leaked.

“A man’s home is his castle.”

A mangy looking yellow dog ran out from the bedroom and jumped up to greet them, licking at their hands. “Aw, Lucky, bad boy, that’s not how you greet the nice lady. Be a gentleman.”

“I’ve seen manners worse than his.” Lucky adjusted his behavior and sat for her scratches and caresses, thumping his tail against the warped floor boards. 

“He’s not even supposed to be in here. If anyone asks, I don’t have a dog.”

“Don’t hurt his feelings.” Natasha gave him a wounded look as she knelt to cuddle the retriever, not minding his smelly kisses.

“Hey, there aren’t many places in this neighborhood that will let Lucky here live on the premises. I followed my brother Barney here to the city, when I really wanted to stay on the farm. Look how well that worked out.”

“What does Barney do?”

“To hear him tell it, what _doesn’t_ he do? My brother is a lot of things, Natalia, but hardworking and honest, he ain’t. Barney knows how to work a con and how to make enemies. He said he was going to take Riley the rent. I do odd jobs. Mostly under the table, but most of it’s legit.”

“Is it?”

Her green eyes watched him, benign and trusting. He caved.

“Well. No.”

“You didn’t look surprised when he pulled that gun, Clint.”

“Not surprised. My feelings might have been a little hurt, though.”

“Oh, I’m sure they were.”

“Do you always frequent dark alleys, Natalia?”

“Not anymore.”

“Is this another story we need to hear over tea?”

“No. Over something stronger. I had a difficult childhood, Clint. And it didn’t get much easier once I was old enough to have to pay rent myself.”

“Do you? Do you pay it yourself?”

She nodded.

“And yet, _you_ just came to _my_ rescue. And you’re pretty handy with a gun.”

“We might have to leave town.”

“Never liked it much here, anyway.” He glanced around his awful apartment. “And I’ve been having a hard time making the rent. I could use a change of scene.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Clint.”

“You planning to help me look?”

“No. I’m going to help you pack. Get everything that you can fit into one suitcase. And we’re taking the dog.”

He jerked in surprise, but a smile spread slowly across his face. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend like you before, Natalia Alianovna.”

“We’ll be even better friends if you just call me Natasha.”

“Well, it’s your name. Natasha, it is.”

Lucky yipped in agreement. Natasha headed for his bedroom, and without preamble or permission, began to unload his dresser drawers. Clint didn’t scold her for being intrusive.

*

 

It wasn’t a conventional friendship, certainly, but Natasha had a less than fond view of societal norms. Natasha was a handful of years shy of being a spinster, by circumstance and by choice. 

Clint watched her scribble in her journal a moment longer. “Is it because I’m not rich? Or is it just because we met under such unideal circumstances?”

“Is what because of either of those things?”

“Why you won’t let me court you.”

Natasha snorted. “You could be rich as Croesus, and courtship would still be out of the question. And love rarely happens between two people in ideal settings, Barton.” When he huffed under his breath and folded his arms, deflating, she rose from her seat and crossed the room, laying her hand on one of them. His skin felt warm and firm. He smelled like cologne, shoe polish, and the licorice he was so fond of when he had an extra penny or two. “It’s not that I couldn’t care for you. Just not in the way you would need me to. That’s just not how my heart works.”

Clint shook his head, smiling sadly. “Yet somewhere, underneath all that steel, you have one. _Somewhere_.”

“You deserve better.”

“You’re right!”

Natasha chuckled and gave him a little shove, and Clint caught her against him and gave her a loud, undignified kiss on her cheek. Natasha swatted at him and wiped it off with full prejudice.

“I couldn’t be like this with anyone else.”

“Don’t expect me to teach you manners or proper etiquette.”

“Of course not.” Clint’s laugh sounded dry and knowing. “But perhaps don’t let me make too much of a fool of myself when a nice young lady deigns to speak to me.”

“The right young lady will think you brilliant in all of your foolishness.”

“Oh,” Clint told her suddenly, “earlier today, I noticed a woman outside, watching our building from across the street.”

“Watching the building?” Natasha’s smile dropped. “Why?”

“I don’t know. She was just watching it. I noticed she had a _Ladies Journal_ in her hand, too, when she turned on her heel and left. Maybe she has a job for us,” he said hopefully.

“Hmm.”

Oh, if only.


	2. You Are A Natural Beauty, Unaffected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha seldom widens her social circle, yet somehow, she’s just gained a new business partner. Sharon Carter has some interesting ideas of what that entails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sharon, much like Natasha, will be wearing her sassy pants for the bulk of this story.

Clint followed Natasha’s advice and dusted around the office in an attempt to make it look reputable. His rag hovered over the glass pane of a framed picture at the sound of the knock on the door.

“You expecting company?”

“No.” Natasha set aside her box of invoices and the dunning letter she had just rolled out of the typewriter carriage and rose to answer their guest. Through the rippled privacy pane in the door with Clint’s name on it, she saw a tall, slender silhouette.

“Good afternoon, miss. Do you have an appointment?” Natasha already knew the answer to that; their books were clear for the day, so that she could do the bookkeeping.

“Hello. And no, not at the moment. But perhaps you could set one for me to discuss some things with you.”

“Discuss some things,” Natasha repeated calmly.

“Namely a business proposition.”

“Perhaps. After you give us your name.”

“Oh! Of course.” Her smile was self-deprecating and charmingly dimpled. She extended her hand, which was slim and warm. “Sharon. Sharon Carter.”

“Miss… Carter?” Clint asked, fishing. “Are you related to any of the Carters who live on this side of town?”

“Oh, no. Just my aunt. I suppose you could say that she sponsored me. I lived with her while I was finishing school. She was my guardian. I was her headache.” Another smile, this one more mischievous than the first. Natasha found herself smiling in response. 

“Whose headache are you now?” Natasha asked her.

“If you have some time to chat and get better acquainted, I could be yours,” she suggested.

“I wish I had some cucumber sandwiches and tea to serve you, but our cupboards are bare,” Natasha warned as she stood aside and gestured for Sharon to cross the threshold.

It gave her a moment to take her in properly.

Tall. That was her first impression. And graceful. She moved like a graduate from one of the finest finishing schools. Her posture was impeccable. Sharon dressed sedately in a dove gray dress and a white reticule; her hair was pinned up beneath her lilac blue bonnet, so it was difficult to tell what color it was, but her brows were sandy brown and arched. Intelligence and warmth shone from her brown eyes. Sharon Carter owned soft curves and her smile was inviting, but Natasha sensed a core of steel underneath the pretty trappings. That, in addition to the tiny frisson of electricity in Natasha’s belly when Sharon trained that smile on her, appealed to her more than she would ever admit.

Few people who did business with Black Hawk Investigations showed up looking this cheerful and calm. Natasha took in the more subtle details. Sensible shoes. No wedding diamond on her finger. An interesting scar on the back of her left hand, instead. She smelled slightly of lemons. Clint fawned over her, pulling out a chair for her in front of their shabby desk that he’d just finished dusting. 

“I have licorice, if I could interest you in any.”

“Oh, no thank you. I’ve never acquired a taste for it. But that’s still very kind.”

And she looked as though she found the offer kind. As though she found Clint Francis Barton kind. But she _didn’t_ look as though he’d swept her off her feet so far during this particular interview. Natasha wondered if she was the kind of woman looking for someone like him to sweep her off of her feet _at all_. Or if she preferred to stay grounded. Natasha, for all that she loved putting Clint in his place about his questionable appeal, had to admit that women stared after him around the neighborhood, more often than manners dictated. 

Clint sensed that this wasn’t the time to test the romantic waters. “Right. Perhaps a glass of water, then?”

“That would be lovely, thank you, sir.”

“No one’s ever called me ‘sir’ and meant it. Call me Clint.”

Sharon bit her lip. Natasha sighed. Then, Sharon handed Natasha the folded copy of _Ladies Home Journal_ , sliding it across the desk. “I saw your ad.”

“And you think we need _your_ services?” Natasha leaned back in her seat and gave her an appraising look.

“I do.”

“And they are…?”

“Numerous. And valuable.”

Natasha caught Clint smirking at the sink where he stood filling the glass. “Bold claim.”

“I’m not making a claim. That’s a promise, Miss Romanova.”

Natasha’s lips quirked. “Should I ask how you know my surname?”

“You may. That doesn’t mean I will divulge my sources.”

“Yet, you have them. You have _sources_.”

“Perhaps.”

Clint handed her the water with a curt bow.” She accepted it and took a grateful, deep gulp. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. So. You risked coming to this side of town on your own. I don’t know whether to be impressed or doubtful, Miss Carter.”

“I don’t have any husband to rush home to or roast a chicken for,” she explained. 

“I see that,” Natasha agreed.

“Of course you do.” Sharon took another sip of the water. “I know you’ve been here for three years. Clint, I know your brother has been searching for you for at least that long.”

Clint’s face hardened. “I don’t have a brother.”

The silence that fell over the room was heavy and thick. Sharon sipped her water and mulled that.

Natasha spoke first. “It’s a sore subject.”

“Then, I won’t press.”

“What do you think you can offer us, Sharon?”

“Another pair of eyes and ears. Connections. And despite first impressions, which might seem poor, subtlety.”

Clint laughed.

“You look like you enjoy more than basic comforts.”

“My aunt Margaret is well-heeled. My parents have passed on to their final rest, Natalia.”

Natasha couldn’t help the slight flinch at her proper name. 

“Is that another sore spot?”

“No.”

Sharon sighed, but then she smiled winningly. “I’m good at talking to people, and at hearing the things they don’t say.”

“What am I not saying?”

“That you don’t like people digging too deep. Including me. And that someone has tried.”

“Secrets are meant to stay secret.”

“Otherwise, it’s called news,” Clint added. “So. You want to come and work for Black Hawk.”

“I do.”

“We’re not a fancy place,” Natasha said.

“I can see that.”

Natasha’s lips twitched. 

“Working here means taking out the trash and shining my shoes,” Clint lied. “Doesn’t it, Natasha?”

“What he really means is that you will do a lot of heavy lifting.”

Clint folded his arms at that and leaned awkwardly against the desk.

“Do you?” Sharon asked her.

“Yes. Do you know how to fire a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Pick a lock?”

“Yes.”

“Are you afraid of cramped spaces?”

“No.”

“Crowds?”

“Never.”

“Do you ever get motion sickness?”

“Motion sickness?”

“From the train.”

“Oh. Then, no.”

“We ride a lot of those,” Clint mentioned.

“I hope you aren’t in this line of work for fame, Sharon. You notice that it isn’t my name on the door, or in that ad you’re holding.”

“I’m used to that.” Sharon handed them a small business card, printed on good stock. Natasha hummed under her breath at the address listed on it.

“A post office box.”

“Yes.”

“Proprietor: S. Carter.”

“Has a nice, simple ring to it.”

“And no gender.”

“None.”

Natasha handed her back the card, but she didn’t let go of it when Sharon pinched it between her fingers. Holding onto it, Nat rose again to her feet and joined Sharon in front of the desk, until they were mere inches apart. Close enough to see that Sharon’s skin was smooth and poreless. That her lips were a rich, natural, rosy pink. 

“There’s no one for you to come home to who asks you about your day?”

“Just my cat. She’s not very talkative.”

Natasha’s expression softened. “What kind?”

“Persian. With green eyes. She’s quite the beauty, and rather demanding. Sometimes, I think she forgets who’s in charge.”

“Imagine that.”

“Imagine.” Clint’s voice sounded dry but loaded. Natasha’s eyes swung his way with malice, making him bite his lip.

“So, Sharon, if you haven’t guessed yet,” Natasha said, releasing Sharon’s business card and backing away from her, a gesture that made Sharon look bereft, “Clint is the face of Black Hawk.”

“And you’re the bookkeeper,” Sharon guessed.

“And the secretary. And the apple polisher.”

“How quaint.”

“And, unfortunately, necessary.”

“When anyone who isn’t you comes knocking,” Clint clarified. “I’m the face. And I thought I was the muscle, too, but Natalia-” Clint earned himself another look, and he corrected himself, “-Natasha… cured me of that assumption.”

“Really?” Sharon leaned forward in her seat, wanting the whole story with one glance.

“She never lets me live it down. Natasha, go ahead and tell her. I need to go for a walk and find some male company and pretend that my opinions are still valid and worthy.”

“Enjoy the fresh air,” Natasha called after him as he donned his wool cap. He gave her a jaunty salute and let the door click softly shut behind him.

Sharon and Nat shared a look. Sharon finally removed her bonnet and laid it on the edge of Natasha’s desk, reaching up to preen and smooth the edges of her hair. It was a warm, rich honey blonde, almost the same shade as Clint’s. Natasha entertained the brief wish to see it down.

“I get the impression that there are a few things you needed to discuss with me without Mr. Barton listening in.”

“Nothing he hasn’t already heard before. There are things I wanted to ask you without an audience.”

“Of course.” Sharon relaxed and leaned back slightly in her seat, crossing one shapely leg over the other. Natasha’s calm expression gave no indication that they distracted her.

“Did someone hurt you?”

Sharon huffed, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Something inspired you to want to do this. Investigation isn’t a field that the bravest or the most savvy man enters into lightly, Sharon. Why does it appeal to _you_?”

“My aunt Peggy inspired me, Natasha. She told me to plant myself like a tree after watching me get pushed back and shoved down too many times, and I finally started to listen to her. You ask me if someone hurt me. I’m here to tell you that they didn’t _break_ me. And they’re too cowardly to tell the tale of how they tried.”

“I have the feeling I would like your aunt.”

“I’ve only just met you, but I can tell you’re a lot alike.”

“So. You really have no husband to rush home to roast a chicken for.”

“No.”

“Not so much as a beau?”

Sharon’s lips twisted. “No. I have no commitments and no one to hold me back from this profession.”

“It wouldn’t discourage me from considering your offer even if you did. It’s dangerous work. I hate to see you risk yourself if-”

“Don’t worry about me taking risks. I can handle them.”

“Tell me a little about the work you’ve done up til now.”

Sharon smiled eagerly and dug into her reticule. She pulled out a handful of folded newspaper clippings. “I keep thinking I will make a scrapbook for these eventually, or even just put them in a box.” She handed Natasha the clippings, and their fingertips brushed for a moment. “That’s some of my handiwork.”

Natasha looked them over. The headlines made her eyes widen in interest. “Area child missing for two weeks found in Long Island. Kidnappers arrested after ransom attempt.”

“I’m proud of that one.”

“You should be.” Natasha looked wistful for a moment. “That child will always remember what you did for him. You’re his angel.”

“That’s overstating things a bit-”

“No. It’s not. You allowed him to grow up and become the kind of man who will come to someone else’s rescue, however he makes that happen. And he’ll make that happen.” Natasha’s voice held conviction and a gritty edge.

Sharon’s brows drew together, and her smile gathered itself up and tucked itself away for later. She got back to the matter at hand. “Well? How do I sound so far?”

“You sounded sounded smooth as a violin in tune, Miss Carter, from the moment that you walked in that door.”

“So I sound like someone you could work with?”

“ _You_ would be working with _me_.”

“Would I?” The smile hesitated. “ _Will_ I?”

Natasha waited a beat or two before she told her, “For now. How long we enjoy a working relationship depends entirely upon you.”

Sharon chuckled at that. “Fair enough, Miss Romanova.”

“That name stays inside this room.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Natasha had the feeling that Sharon Carter understood why without having to dig too deep. 

“All right. Well, if you don’t mind, Sharon, I have to finish my bookkeeping.”

“Then I will leave you to it.” Sharon rose again and reached for Natasha’s hand. Natasha allowed their hands to linger together, gently clasped. That tiny, delicate scar on her lip continued to intrigue Nat, but she chided herself not to stare at it.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?”

“I need to visit an associate of my aunt’s in the morning. But the rest of my afternoon should be free. What did you have in mind?”

“Care to accompany me to a tea party Should be a stuffy affair, but there will be food and tea and cognac and women murdering each other with double-sided compliments.”

“That sounds marvelous!”

“Does it?”

“Not at all. That sounds perfectly dreadful.”

“Misery loves company.”

“Then, you’ll love me, Natasha.”

 

*

 

“She’s very particular about who she allows to handle her.” Selene Gallio cooed down at the tiny, carefully groomed bichon frisse in her arms, who yipped and snapped at the middle-aged woman who attempted to lightly scratch her ears. The dog drew back her muzzle and growled, unimpressed with her as she hastily withdrew her hand.

“Someone’s feeling sensitive,” she retorted. “My little Hilde is such a love, no matter who comes into the house. I’m always afraid someone might try to steal her away.”

“Sounds like a loose little minx,” Selene suggested.

“Hardly, dearie.”

 

Selene wore her characteristic black, this time a richly embroidered frock with a gleaming, charcoal gray sash and sleeves trimmed in ruffles. The basque was cruelly tailored, emphasizing her wasp waist. Natasha didn’t envy her the bite of the stays that kept her pinched and smothered into that shape. Natasha and Sharon watched this exchange with barely disguised amusement.

“Aunt Peggy never owned dogs when I was coming up.”

“Once in a while, I would sneak the stray ones a scrap or two, when I could go outside at all.” Nat sipped her tea, wishing it was a hot cider, instead. Even suggesting such a thing was too pedestrian for this parlor of women. 

“You were a sedentary child?”

“Not by choice.”

“Did you live that sheltered of a life, then?”

“No. Stifled.” Natasha used the small silver tongs to drop in another sugar cube that the tea didn’t need, just to busy herself. “That’s the word I would use.”

Sharon made a thoughtful sound and went back to the tiny petit four, demolishing the other half and blotting her lips with a napkin, even though the morsel barely offended her mouth with its pert size, as though it was just as afraid to draw attention to itself as the least remarkable of the women assembled. It was another aspect of their performance, this forced fastidiousness, that Natasha and Sharon both accepted as a necessary evil. Smile. Mince. Fawn. Laugh, but not too much, or too loud. Gently inquire about everyone’s health. Discuss the weather as though it would never happen again. Feign outrage at another woman’s use of the wrong fork while shunning discussion of the economy or the government. Heaven _forbid_.

And always, always keep your ears open, while watching the words that come out of your own mouth.

“I had to stay away from the window. Mother didn’t want anyone to see me from the street,” Natasha murmured, too softly for anyone else to hear her. Sharon didn’t even nod. She just maintained her smile for everyone who glanced their way.

“You were precious to her.”

“I was a bargaining chip. I can’t say that it mattered that she cared for me, when I think back on it. She was wrong to be afraid that they would take me from her. They took her from _me_.”

Sharon’s calm facade cracked for just an instant. “Oh, Natasha-”

“Not here.”

Sharon busied herself taking Nat’s plate, selecting a couple of olives for her and a cracker smeared with pate. “You are looking undernourished.”

“I’m not really-”

“Frost is coming over here.”

And just like that, Sharon provided her an out. Natasha dutifully bit into the cracker, perhaps with too much gusto, ridding her of the need to speak to the stuffy, overdressed blonde. Emma Frost looked expectant, and her smile wavered as she watched Natasha eat.

“Oh. It’s been some time since I saw you last, Natasha. And who is your friend here?”

“Let’s not trouble her for a moment. I hope you will excuse my temerity in making my own introductions. Sharon Carter. Pleased.” 

Emma took her hand. Her fingers were too cool for someone who had been inside all afternoon. “Charmed. Emma Frost.” She reached out and touched the sleeve of Sharon’s frock. “What a lovely dress. That color suits you down to the ground. Brings out those brown eyes of yours so nicely. It’s always so nice when a woman knows how to present herself, isn’t it? You’ll have no trouble at all finding yourself a husband if you keep that up… if you’re in the market for that sort of thing.”

Natasha nearly choked on her olive.

“Time will tell. No sense in shopping myself around so avidly, is there?”

Emma reached out and smacked her arm lightly with her folded up fan. “Oh, I like you.” She turned away and waved over a woman across the room, who gave her a grateful smile as she broke away from the conversation she was already engaged in. “Ororo!” she called out. “Come and meet Sharon… Carter, you said, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Hullo. I’m Ororo. Ororo Munroe.” She turned to Natasha and told her, “You’ve always come alone, before. Where did you two meet?”

It was a forward question. Sharon handled it quickly. “Through word of mouth. We have friends in common.”

“Oh, that’s always convenient,” Ororo said. She looped her hand through the crook of Emma’s arm. “Emma and I ran in so many of the same circles that it surprised both of us that we had never met sooner. Ours is a small world.”

“Small, and full of delightful surprises.” They shared a brief, fond smile, and Ororo gave her arm a small squeeze. There was intimacy between them. Not for the first time, Natasha found herself envying it. 

“Thank you for rescuing me,” Ororo told Emma. She leaned in close and flicked her fan, using it as a shield as she spoke to them. “Emma’s sister Adrienne was boring us to death about the finishing school where she sent her niece, and the money her husband donated to it, as though Emma hadn’t thought of that first when she donated the same sum last spring, herself.”

“Now, now,” Emma told her.

“It wasn’t original,” Ororo said, nonplussed.

“What other benefit is there to being a spinster?”

Ororo clapped her fan shut and leaned in, this time to whisper to Emma alone. Emma chuckled and shook her head. Her cheeks were pink. Sharon’s brows rose. Natasha ate her last olive to avoid comment.

“That looks like a new necklace Selene is wearing.”

“Emeralds are all the rage, lately.”

“A bit ostentatious this early in the season.”

“Jewels _never_ go out of season. Never let me hear such a sacrilege escape your lips again, my dear Ororo, or we shan’t be friends.”

“Marcus is keeping Selene rather comfortable these days.”

“Business must be picking up.”

“I could use another frock for my niece’s wedding. Cordelia has been going on about the colors for the linens and the flowers all week. Why she’s planning it in April is beyond me; we’ll all end up tramping in the mud in our finery if the weather doesn’t hold. I don’t want to ruin my best pair of slippers just because my niece made a hasty union.”

“I need to speak to Selena,” Natasha mentioned. “I beg your pardon, ladies.”

Sharon longed to follow her, but she remained behind, listening to Emma’s well meaning complaints and jibes while Natasha approached Selene. She didn’t attempt to touch Princess, even though the dog’s ears perked up with interest as she drew near.

“Fine day for a gathering,” Natasha greeted. “That’s a lovely dress, Selene.”

“Another guilt offering, if you ask me,” Selene told her. “Third one this week, but who’s counting?”

“Why turn down silk?”

“Well, of course I would never turn down silk. Would you?” 

Natasha shook her head, smiling. 

“Smart girl. Has Mr. Barton found anything else out yet from the men at the drawing room?”

She meant the gambling den. Nastasha knew all of the same polite words that wouldn’t perk up the wrong ears. “Nothing out of the ordinary, except for an appearance by Mr. Shaw.”

“Shaw?” Selene frowned. “He has such an unpleasant countenance.”

“He’s a bit dour for my taste.” He made Natasha’s skin crawl.

“Dour. How kindly you put that. He’s dreadful.”

“He was there for a while. Clint said he’s quite sharp at cards.”

This annoyed Selene. “I’ve warned Marcus not to associate with him so flagrantly. It’s like talking to his picture on the mantel.”

“Men tend to be selective about what they wish to hear.”

“What a fortunate affliction to possess.” Selene eyed Natasha. “You’ve managed to pick up a stain, dear.”

Natasha looked down at her dress in dismay. There was a tiny spot on her skirt, halfway between her waist and her hem. Small enough that no one else would have felt the need to point it out to her. “I will have to attend to that when I return home.”

“Unless you’d like to attend to it now?” Selene asked, just this side shy of nagging.

“Oh, it will keep-”

“But, it’s so unsightly. That won’t do at all.”

Natasha didn’t deflate visibly, but she felt her soul shrivel at Selene’s polite tone. This was how it felt, Natasha decided, to be the fly stuck to the gleaming, delicate filaments of the spider’s web before its life was drained away.

“There you are.” Sharon joined them without invitation. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Gallio. I’m afraid I need to take Natasha with me on an urgent errand that requires both our attention.”

“Oh, my. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure-”

“Carter. Sharon. Miss Carter.” She reached out and chucked Princess, who, surprisingly, decided not to protest, under her canine chin. “What a lovely lady you are, sweetums. Who’s a good girl?” she crooned.

Princess whined in her throat and wagged her tail, but Sharon took Natasha’s elbow. “We must be off. This was lovely. Thank you so much for the invitation, ma’am.”

“I don’t recall inv-”

“We will be in touch. After I speak with my contacts. And, erm… once we take care of Sharon’s… errand.”

“Sharon’s errand,” Selene said blankly.

“Good day,” Sharon told her. Selene’s maid arrived with their hats, and they were off. Natasha allowed Sharon to link arms with her, and they walked away with brisk strides, more quickly than manners dictated.

“That was abrupt.”

“You looked like you needed some air. And I wanted to speak to you away from that crowd. Emma’s rather talkative after a thimbleful of cognac. I think we have a lead on Mr. Gallio’s leisure activities.” Sharon and Nat shared a smile. “He’s not playing cards.”

“No?” Natasha’s voice held a note of sarcasm. “Do enlighten me.”

Sharon’s nose wrinkled, and her dark eyes gleamed back at Natasha, a look she was growing to like. “Shaw spends a lot of time in darkened corners. He owns several buildings within city limits. Office spaces not unlike your own.”

“And your own, after a fashion, Miss Carter.”

Sharon made a pleased sound, and she didn’t release her grip on Nat’s arm. Their closeness was companionable and didn’t raise any eyebrows as they walked down the street. “Our dear Marcus is a partner of Shaw’s. He helps him collect from his tenants. His methods are perhaps _too_ effective.”

Natasha’s smile faltered for a moment. Sharon noticed and squeezed her arm. “Natasha?”

“I’m familiar with those methods and how effective they are.”

“Their friendship has been staunch up until now. But there have been rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“Men won’t admit that they gossip. Whiskey is their tea of choice, is the only difference. Emma said that Roberto, the young man who delivers her orders from the butcher’s, told her the other day that Marcus has been seen at the jeweler’s more often, lately. Purchasing trinkets with cash. Decorations for his little magpie.”

“Selene?” Nat wondered.

“She’s decorative, true,” Sharon said. “But not in a tacky way.”

“Magpie,” Nat said. 

“Mm-hm.”

“Hmmmmmm. Jewels. And girlish pastels, according to my acquaintance at the launderers.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yes. Marcus is generous with his magpie, I think, in a way that he isn’t with Shaw’s tenants.”

“One would think he makes a comfortable enough living selling silks.”

“Comfortable enough to support a wife, perhaps. But maybe not enough to gild his magpie’s cage.”

Natasha paused a moment and bent down, not caring how unladylike she seemed as she took off her shoes and shortened her height even further, walking alongside Sharon in stockingfeet. “These are dreadful.”

“You just showed your ankles to the entire neighborhood.”

“Bet it gave them a thrill.”

“Hand them over, then.”

“Why? I can carry my own shoes.”

“I’m just in a mood to be nice to you today. Especially after suffering Selene’s drawing room today.”

“My stain and I offended her today.”

“We’ll dab a bit of vinegar on it when we get home,” Sharon offered. 

“I don’t have any vinegar back at the office. Or at home.”

“Well, I meant _my_ home, dear.”


	3. You Must Have Took An Hour Just to Make Up Your Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharon brings out Natasha’s urge to share. Natasha soon learns that it’s good to have a friend to join you when you walk in the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Clint. Because I love Clint. And more minor characters from the X-Men and New Mutants, because I’m a wimp who can’t write OC’s.

Sharon lived in a women’s boarding house run by a widow named Clementine. Rent was low, and the housekeeping wasn’t up to the most exacting standards, but Natasha wouldn’t judge anyone for failing to dust their shelves or beat the rugs every day. Clementine eyed Natasha in amusement when Sharon made the introductions. Neither women offered a hand to clasp.

“Well, now. Look at you.” She tsked, and then Clem turned to Sharon. “You never bring anyone home.”

“Not everyone I know has such sterling character.”

That made Clem laugh hard enough to jiggle her chins and ample body. “I count the silver. I’ll know if any of it’s missing, dearie.”

“Have we any vinegar?”

“ _I_ have vinegar, up in the cupboard.”

“May we use a bit of it, then? Natasha has picked up a little spot on her dress.”

“Bet she’s picked up more than _that_.” Clementine rose from the fainting couch with difficulty and ambled toward the kitchen, with Natasha and Sharon in tow. Natasha perused the framed pictures and paintings hung on the walls in the corridor. She listened to the slightly battered but still valuable ormolu clock tick, and she smelled a hint of stale garbage just off the kitchen, but Clementine went to the cupboards and jerked one open, triumphantly handing Sharon the bottle of vinegar. “Just use a bit. It ain’t free.”

“You’re too kind,” Sharon told her retreating back, rolling her eyes at Natasha for effect. Nat bit her lip and stood still while Sharon bent down and blotted at the spot with a napkin soaked in the precious vinegar. “It’s not so bad.”

“It was to Selene.”

Sharon huffed and shook her head. “You seem like a woman who has little patience for being a lady.” The skirt rustled as Sharon lifted the edge of it to the light to better examine the stain. The gesture exposed Nat’s ankles and calves again, but no was was around to judge her for it.

“Oh, dear…”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone,” Sharon assured her. “You have a hole in your stocking, too. You’re coming apart at the seams, Romanoff.”

“You’re being rather critical, all of the sudden. I don’t know if I should regret meeting you or not.”

Sharon sobered. “I hope not.”

“I’m not used to this.”

“Not used to what?”

“Having a friend. A lady friend. Barton and I are thick as thieves, but I always have to look after him.”

“No one’s ever looked after you?”

“No.” The word was a revelation. A confession. 

“It’s coming out. There we are. Good enough.” Sharon dropped the edge of Nat’s skirt and smoothed it with her palm. She stoppered the vinegar bottle and returned it to the cupboard before Clem could miss it. “You’ll pass muster, now.”

“I need to meet Clint and handle the books.”

“Are you hungry at all?”

“I could eat.” The food at the party was insubstantial, even insulting to call it such. Sharon went to the pantry and pulled out a covered plate that turned out to be a half a loaf of bread. She cut two generous slices from it and laved them with strawberry jam, setting the thicker one on a small plate before Natasha.

“Sometimes, you just need some jam. And some company to share it with.”

“How angry will she be for giving me some?”

“Giving you my company?” Sharon joked. “Why, she won’t be upset at all.”

Natasha snorted as she took a less than delicate bite of the bread and jam. It felt good not to stand on ceremony or worry about etiquette, to truly be able to enjoy the simple food in large, undignified bites, licking the sticky sweetness from her fingers. Sharon watched her with amusement.

“That’s pitiful.”

And she slid her own plate of bread and jam across the table to Nat, a gesture of friendship and confirming what they both already know.

Natasha had been too long in the world with no one else to look after her. To care about her and take care of the spots. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Finish it before Clem comes back.”

As Natasha worked on the bread, she heard the light thuds of tiny feet hurrying into the room and felt something soft and ticklish brush up against her ankles. Natasha tugged her skirts up and smiled down at the large, plush white cat. 

“You have an admirer,” Sharon remarked.

“Yours?”

“After a fashion. She’s really her own cat. She merely tolerates me because I give her food. Clem keeps ranting on that she’ll drown her in a sack, but I’ve caught them napping together. She can’t fool me.”

“She’s my kind of girl,” Nat told her as she reached down and scratched the kitty behind her ears, making her purr shamelessly.

 

They chatted, sharing impressions of the day. Once Sharon cleaned up their dishes, Nat followed Sharon upstairs to her tiny room. It wasn’t as dusty as the rest of the house, and Nat noticed a pair of pictures in silver frames.

“Mother and Father. And Aunt Peggy.” The latter was an elegant woman of older years, with graying brown hair pulled up in an elegant pompadour and smiling dark eyes that looked so much like Sharon’s. “The bank took her home when she passed. And I ended up here.”

“Were you their only child?”

“Yes. They’d hoped for a son, of course.”

“Who hasn’t?”

Sharon smothered a laugh. “Aunt Peggy understood that all too well, too. She was strong, and sharp as a tack.”

“I’m sure she was.” 

Sharon bent down and pulled open the lid of a trunk that sat at the foot of the bed. She lifted out a small, leather-bound journal that was well-worn and thick. “I’m going to jot down my impressions. Then, we can head back to the office.”

“You don’t have anything you need to be doing right now?”

“We’re working. I’m doing whatever you say we’re doing, wherever. Whenever. The alternative is listening to my landlady complain about the price the butcher charged her for veal chops again or that my neighbor Bessie hung her stockings and britches to dry out the window again for all eyes to see.”

“All right. To the office, then.”

The walk back was companionable, once Sharon talked Natasha into putting her shoes back on. The heat of the day steamed them through their soles, rising up in waves from the pavement and gravel. Both women felt a little wilted by the time they reached their building. When they reached the office, Clint already sat inside, reading over some notes and eating an unremarkable sandwich. He saluted them with it as they entered.

“Good afternoon. Aren’t you both a sight for sore eyes?”

“How sore are they?” Nat asked. Clint smirked around a mouthful of his lunch and waved them in.

“So. Sebastian Shaw,” he told them. “I’ve heard some things.”

“From around the neighborhood?”

“No. From the man himself. I enjoyed a fine glass of port-”

“This early in the day?” Sharon interrupted. “Clinton!”

“Don’t be so quick to scold me. Wine opens doors and loosens lips. I visited that club of his. Nothing but a gambling den, obviously, but he calls it a ‘smoking lounge.’”

“That explains the smell you brought in with you.” Natasha noticed the faint odor of cherrywood fumes lingering on his clothing when she approached and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Stop telling me I stink, Natalia.”

“Never mind that. Go on.”

“So. Shaw just dismissed his accountant three days ago. You may find it interesting that that man was reported as missing _two_ days ago. Shaw mentioned that the books weren’t adding up from the payments he received from his income properties.”

“Missing.” Natasha reached over and tweaked off a bit of Clint’s sandwich and popped it into her mouth, causing him to split was was left of it and hand it over.

“Are you that famished?” Sharon asked. She shook her head. “Goodness…”

“I need my energy.”

“So. I have a theory,” Clint told them. “I think his accountant didn’t know why the books didn’t balance. I knew him. Upright fellow. Robert Drake. Just out of university. _Excellent_ with numbers. He seemed like the sort that loved his work.”

“Could have been an act.”

“It wouldn’t have been like him. I can read people. Shaw went on about how hard it is to find an honest man when you need one to help you count your coins.”

“Maybe Shaw just needs to learn how to count.”

“So did my brother,” Clint mentioned. He reached up and tweaked Natasha’s nose just to annoy her.

“All right. So, a missing accountant. And?”

“That’s all I know so far.”

“Does Shaw collect his own rents?” Sharon asked. “He’d be more aware of his own funds if he did that himself.”

“Marcus Gallio helps. That much, we know. His pockets aren’t that heavy from selling fine cloth alone.” Nat chewed on the piece of thinly shaved beef she plucked from between the slices of bread.

Natasha and Sharon compared notes. Both women took down Clint’s impressions, and Natasha worked on the bookkeeping for the week.

“How was the party?” Clint asked.

“No port. There was sherry. And tea,” Sharon told him.

“And shamefully tiny food. Like eating air.” Nat’s tone was bland. 

“Can’t have you breaking out of your stays,” Clint teased.

Nat’s eyes widened, and she gave him a mulish look. He ducked her attempt to swat him. “Fine and proper ladies don’t have an appetite,” he continued as she began to chase him around the room. Clint laughed, ducking behind tables and pushing chairs between them. Sharon yelped when Clint tried to hide behind her.

“Come out from behind her, you coward! Don’t expect Sharon to protect you!”

“I’m trying to protect _me!_ ” Sharon argued as she shooed Nat away, but Clint kept clinging to her and ducking Natasha’s hands. Sharon finally shook them both off and smoothed her hands over her dress, righting herself. “Don’t manhandle me!”

“Hey. Actually, let me,” he suggested.

“Let you _what?_ ”

“Manhandle. Spar. Nat and I do it all the time.”

Sharon’s brows drew together. “That’s an outlandish suggestion.”

“Can you fight?”

“When the need arises, sir, but more importantly, I can shoot.”

Clint made an appreciative sound, but he told her, “You still need to be able to break yourself free if someone unsavory gets a hold of you.”

“We haven’t practiced in a while,” Nat mentioned. She had a gleam in her eye that worried Sharon slightly. And wisely.

“Not in your good dress?”

“Perhaps not.” She turned to Clint. “You. Go. Find me some trousers.”

Sharon paled. “Oh, dear God…”

 

*

They moved the furniture to the outer edges of the room and locked the office, and minutes later found Clint and Nat practicing different wrestling holds and Natasha skillfully breaking most of them.

“This long, lovely hair of yours is a liability,” Clint reminded her. He tugged on a loose tendril of it, and she responded by jerking her head back and trying to butt him in the nose. She missed. Clint chuckled and adjusted his grip.

“Pity. It’s stylish.” Her argument came out on a grunt, and her face was flushed and gleaming with sweat over the edge of his forearm, which he had braced around her neck. 

Sharon stood off to the side, wearing only her chemise and a borrowed pair of trousers under it. Her hair was pinned back and she stood in her bare feet, similarly tousled. They had sparred for about two hours, switching partners each time, so that Sharon could get to know both of their fighting styles. Her arms and shoulders smarted a little from the different holds Barton placed her in, but it was educational. 

Natasha looked tinier than ever, swamped in Clint’s too-large clothes, including one of this shirts. The shirt’s buttons were all done up except for the top one, and she had the sleeves rolled up over her elbows to help her mobility. They stumbled a bit as they sparred, and Clint tried to trip her up, pushing his kneecap into the hollow of hers, but she managed to overbalance him and knocked both of them to the floor. “Don’t get that low, Nat! You know better than that! You might not make it back up!”

“He’s right, you know,” Sharon told her.

“Shut up, you!” Natasha hissed.

“Well, he’s right!”

“I’m right!” Clint sounded delighted, but winded.

“Even a broken clock’s right twice a day, Clint.”

“Are you calling me a broken clock?!”

They got back up and tried the moves again. This time, Sharon interrupted them. “You. Out. Me, in.”

Natasha huffed, blowing her hair away from her mouth as she moved away from Clint and allowed her new business associate to take her place. Sharon brushed up against Natasha as she passed, playfully bumping her arm. Nat smirked, catching her plump lower lip between her teeth. _At least this would be entertaining._

They scuffled. Clint managed to get Sharon under his arm, but he cried out in surprise as she flipped him over her shoulder.

“What… was _that?!_ ” He stared up at her incredulously. Natasha looked impressed.

“Aunt Peggy showed me that. She had brothers.”

“I had a brother, too, but he never taught me how to do that.” Clint rose and flexed himself at the waist, digging his fists into his lower back to crack it. “Okay. Enough. I’m starving again, and the cupboards are bare.”

“I might have some money,” Sharon offered. 

“We’re supposed to be paying you, remember?” Clint looked sheepish as he mopped his brow with the back of his wrist.

“A minor detail that we will not quibble over.”

“We may quibble a little,” Nat corrected her. “Where would you like to spend this likely money of yours?”

“Wherever you like that will seat the three of us without questioning why two unmarried women are accompanying a gentleman on this fine evening.”

“Perhaps we can just get some food and bring it back in, then.”

“Wise choice.”

 

They sent Clint out with a small bill of Sharon’s tucked into his pocket, since it took him the least time to make himself presentable. Both women rested, fanning themselves in the heat of the stuffy office. A faint breeze blew in from the open window, still not enough to cool the space. 

“So. You truly had no one, then.”

“Pardon?”

“When you were younger.”

“Oh.” Natasha took down her hair, tossing each pin onto the desk and letting it uncoil. The deep auburn mass tumbled down her back, and she combed her fingers through it. “No. I had no one. No one but myself.”

“Why?”

“My father couldn’t afford to keep me. He made an arrangement with an associate of his.”

“An arrangement?”

“He sold me.”

“Your father. He _sold_ you.”

“Father had an unfortunate taste for cards and spirits, and even worse taste in business partners. Mother tried to take me away to my grandparents. They caught up to us at the docks. I never saw her again.”

“Natasha…”

“I was like that boy you found. Lost. Hidden. A man named Yasha found me when I was seven. He knew me from my old neighborhood. My father’s associate put me to work in his house. Yasha took me in the middle of the night, far away from there. He forced me to be silent. Not so much as a peep. My heart was pounding so fast. Yasha had connections. He knew the right people to ask and the right people to pay off. And in some cases, the right people to silence.”

Sharon merely nodded, but Natasha saw pity in her eyes, knew on some level that Sharon Carter was mourning the child that Natasha was never allowed to be.

“So. Would you like to know how I made it this far?”

“Please.”

“He cut my hair. Cut all of it off. He dressed me in boy’s clothes and a gray wool cap, and he took me with him on a train. He left me with his sister, Rebecca, and she raised me like one of her own, but as a son, until I was old enough that I could no longer be mistaken for anything but a girl.”

“She took such a risk.”

“She was very kind to me. She was all that I had.”

“Your father’s associate never found you?”

“No. Yasha made him disappear. Like I told you, Sharon, he had connections. He knew the right people.”

“So now, you’re also in the habit of knowing the right people?”

“No. Just able to tell who the wrong ones are when I meet them. The man who bought me tried to shower me in gifts. Dolls. Pink dresses. Hair ribbons. Tea sets. That’s one of the reasons why I don’t care much for those things now.”

“So. No feminine trappings. No frills.”

“It’s never quite fit me.”

“No. After only knowing you this long, I can tell that it didn’t.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Disappointed in what? That you survived your childhood? Never.”

Natasha smiled and let her eyes flit away.

“I’m very glad you decided to grow back your hair, though.”

Nat’s cheeks heated up. “Oh.”

“It’s glorious.”


	4. The Way You Hold Your Knife, The Way We Danced Til Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s all about discretion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More minor characters from the New Mutants and X-Men. More meandering plot. It’s in here, somewhere. _Somewhere_.

“It smells like mildew in here.”

“Don’t breathe too deeply, then.”

That earned Natasha a snort. “That’s not helpful advice.”

“Can we concentrate on what’s happening across the way, instead?”

“This feels so invasive.”

“We’re getting paid a pretty penny for what we’re doing right now. Remind yourself of how well we will eat once we present Mrs. Gallio with the information she seeks.”

“Provided we don’t expire from an infection, first.”

Natasha gave Sharon a sympathetic smile. “We will manage. Neither of us is so delicate as to succumb to a little dirt.”

“This isn’t ‘a little.’”

Clint managed to get them into an abandoned building across the street from where Marcus’ “magpie” was rumored to live. The old tenement felt like it was crumbling around them from neglect. Clint gained them entrance with a rock to a window, hurrying to unlock the door for them before anyone noticed. It was late enough that polite people had long since retired to bed. Natasha and Sharon dressed in plain cotton dresses for the trip; Natasha’s was a dull, steely gray, while Sharon’s was a deep, subdued blue that blended well with the shadows. 

They remained in the hushed, oppressive darkness, with slices of light from the street lamps falling over them through a crack in the window shade. 

The object of their vigil moved about in the apartment across the street. Young. Blonde, with soft, curling hair pulled back from her face in a chignon, messy tendrils falling around a heart-shaped face. She wore a silk dressing gown trimmed with lace and looked, at first, like she was preparing for bed. The only unusual detail was the pink tourmaline pendant hanging from her neck, and the matching ear bobs adorning her tiny ears. Natasha and Sharon watched her rubbing cream from a jar down the length of her forearms, pale in the soft lamp light. When she rose from her vanity seat, she got up and danced a few steps around the room, making the folds of her dressing gown sway softly around her body. Both women watched transfixed.

“Do you ever dance, Natasha?”

“Rarely. I don’t often get the opportunity.”

“No ball invitations?”

“That wasn’t how I danced. Mother was a ballerina. She showed me everything she knew.” There was a note of bitterness in her voice. “The man Father sold me to often wanted me to dance for him, like a figurine in a music box.”

“Then I suppose dancing for pleasure wouldn’t appeal to you now.”

“Perhaps it would, if I had the right partner.”

“I may hold you to that.”

Nat turned and glanced at her, lips twisting into a surprised smile. “Are you offering, Miss Carter?”

“I am, Miss Romanoff. I’m good at other things besides sparring.”

Sharon was standing close enough for Nat to smell the clove she’d chewed earlier to freshen her breath after supper and the lavender that wafted up from her dress, no doubt from a sachet she’d packed in her trunks. Her voice was soft. Close. Casual, yet teasing.

It threw Natasha completely off-balance for a moment. Just a moment. Soft little chills ran down her back in response. “She’s going to the door.”

Both of them turned their attention to what was happening through the window. They watched her hurry to the bedroom door and open it, pausing to take to whomever arrived.

“Late for company,” Sharon mused.

She pulled her guest into the room, and both of them recognized Marcus Gallio, dressed in a shirt and vest, but no jacket. His sleeves were rolled up, making him look like a man about to retire and relax for the night. The young woman stepped into his embrace and kissed him as though it was routine.

“Such a study in contrasts,” Sharon murmured.

“Between…?”

“Wife and mistress.”

“Ah. Definitely. How could one man’s tastes vary so much?”

“It’s easy to call a toy a child’s favorite if it’s the only one in the chest.”

Natasha made a sound of disgust. They watched him untie the sash of her gown and slide it down her arms, letting it drop to the ground in a pale pink puddle of silk. Generous curves were sheathed in white satin, and his hands explored them with ardor.

“Pink,” Nat said. “Girlish pastels.”

“Including the jewels.”

“All right. So, Marcus is spending a pretty penny to keep his magpie.”

“Do we know her name yet?”

 

*

 

“Amara Aquilla. On the marriage market and living with her sister. Her older sister’s a spinster and had pretty much given up on her Season, but she’s keeping Amara in the city. Their family lives in the country. They grow grapes and olives.” Clint fixed them a pot of coffee the following morning as they got caught up. “I managed to get a hold of her post before it was delivered, for her name. Danielle at the millinery shop told me the rest.”

“That’s helpful.” Natasha fetched three cups. She took the one that had a slightly chipped rim for herself and handed Sharon one with little blue cornflowers on its side. When Nat handed Clint one, he scoffed.

“You think I need a cup to drink this?”

“Mind your manners, Clinton.”

“All right. I’m feeling generous today. You can have some, too.” He filled their cups first, and then his own, extending his pinkie as he took the first sip. Sharon snorted into hers at the comical way he cocked his brow at them over the edge of his cup.

“So. We know that Amara is his mistress. We have the information that Selene wanted. Now, we take our payment and wash our hands of this.”

“Do we?” Nat turned to Sharon. “We know that he has a mistress. But there is more to this. She is a woman of means.”

“Her family’s wealth,” Clint corrected her. “Her parents.”

“They must not know about her association with Marcus Gallio. I can’t imagine they would want the scandal of their daughter keeping company with a married man.”

“Marcus and Selene Gallio have one of the busiest parlor rooms in town. Ask yourself why a man of Marcus’ social standing would risk having a mistress.”

“Men of his standing _always_ have mistresses,” Clint reminded them. He refilled his cup with the acidic, strong brew. “The same way that a gentleman always has shoes with a high shine or a clean handkerchief.”

“I just feel like there is something that we’re missing.”

“If Selene knows about his mistress, not just mere suspicion-”

“She only suspects, or she wouldn’t have hired us.”

“There may be something else she wants us to find out.”

“About Amara?”

“Not necessarily.”

“About Marcus’ side business?”

“As a rent collector? She seems sharp enough to notice that something is amiss, even if she never sees his books.”

“We don’t know that she doesn’t see them.”

“Hmmmmm.”

“All right.” Clint clapped his hands sharply to get their attention again. “It’s payday.”

“Yes, it is.” Natasha sighed and folded her arms. Sharon gave her a measured glance. “But we’re not finished working.”

Sharon’s lips curled, and there was interest in her dark eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

“You keep house pretty well. I think you can guess.”

 

*

“You say that… you’re a cleaning service?”

“Housekeeping. Our husbands have passed away,” Natasha lied, giving the attractive young blonde a moment to absorb this information and process it.

Amara Aquilla’s expression became a moue of pity. “Oh, how dreadful! You poor dears! And you’ve no relatives to take you in?”

“Er, no,” Sharon dissembled. “Mother and Father perished in a carriage wreck. It hit a boulder.”

“Before it tumbled over a cliff,” Natasha added. Sharon bit the inside of her cheek.

“Smashed it to bits.”

“The authorities never found the bodies.”

“I lost my mother at a young age. Father was never quite the same afterward.” Sharon and Nat agreed that sometimes, a kernel of truth is the best disguise. 

“Your husband’s had no estate?”

“We had no one to keep the wolves at bay,” Sharon informed her. “But we are attemping to make an honest living.”

“Oh, of course! Well, I could use a bit of help straightening up. I occasionally entertain… guests.”

“Oh, how nice!” Sharon told her.

“So. I get a generous living allowance. My sister and I both do. From our parents.” Natasha caught the vague, subtle emphasis she placed on that word, and she smiled calmly in response.

“So. When would you like us to start?”

“How about tomorrow?”

“All right.”

“I’m a bit allergic to dust,” she warned them. “So, I think… it might be best if I leave you a key? I can run an errand and give you an hour?”

“I think we will have finished the job by then,” Sharon assured her.”

“Wonderful! All right. We will discuss your rates. I will make it well worth your time.” She reached for Sharon’s hand and squeezed it. Her fingers felt slim and cool, and Sharon noticed that she wore several rings on them, all of them jeweled. Silver and white gold. Bangles adorned her wrists. A rich blue tourmaline pendant dangled just below the neckline of her dress, and her hair was richly, elegantly curled. She wore a dress of pale blue silk that hammered home the contrast between her and Marcus’ suspicious, canny wife.

The next morning dawned and found Natasha and Sharon once again dressed in drabs and carrying mops and dusters. Amara’s neighbors didn’t spare them more than a passing glance as they entered her apartment. “I don’t expect you to do the outside windows, of course.”

“We would need to be able to fly,” Natasha scoffed.

“We will have to take it up with the little birds,” Sharon told her. Amara snickered, nodding and making her earbobs bob.

“All right, then. Here’s the key.” She pressed it into Natasha’s palm. “My sister Elyse will be back soon. She had a fitting at the seamstress’ shop.”

“Sounds like she has a lovely afternoon planned,” Natasha suggested.

“Ugh… I’m afraid I find that dreadfully dull. I have a personal seamstress. She already has my measurements, so I don’t have to waste time up on her stool, letting her adjust my hems.” She indicated her dress, swishing the skirt. “This is one of her creations.”

“It suits you.” Sharon noticed it’s predictable pinkness.

“You’re too kind.”

Natasha felt an odd frisson of jealousy. She occasionally wore pink, even though she preferred hearty, solid colors that made a more direct impact. Her mother made her a dress of green sprigged calico, before her father’s poor choices caught up to them. Sharon’s voice was appreciative, to Natasha’s ears.

It piqued her.

Amara let the door click shut behind her. Sharon began making an effort with the duster.

“This is when we actually search this room,” Natasha reminded her.

“She will expect us to have cleaned it,” Sharon said brightly as she ran it over the knick-knacks and the shelves. Natasha sighed.

“I will poke around a bit.”

“Have at it.”

Natasha began searching the closets, slowly sliding rich dresses down the rack on their hangers. Some of them were in muslin garment bags. Natasha separated the flaps and peered inside. “Fancy and frivolous, much like the girl herself,” she muttered under her breath.

“Now, now…”

“She is. How does a woman who should be on the marriage mart at her age, with her family’s status, end up as a man’s mistress?”

“Attraction. He’s powerful. Some women are drawn to power. Like Selene.” Then Sharon’s voice grew wistful. “Perhaps he honestly loves her.”

“He can’t. He’s not honest,” Nat said, voice flat. As Natasha continued to rifle through Amara’s things, they heard a knock at the door.

“There’s that little bird you told her about,” Natasha told Sharon before she hurried to the door to answer it. Clint stood on the other side, grinning. His cheek had a new, bright red abrasion on it that it hadn’t earlier. “Goodness, Barton. What’ve you gotten into now?”

“The usual sport,” he told her. “I had a bit of a scuffle. The man at Shaw’s parlor caught me listening by a window and chased me off, even though I wasn’t trespassing -”

“Except that you _were_.”

“It’s a matter of semantics. He was very rude, and just to let you know, he looks worse than me.”

“We’re investigators, Barton. We are paid to be _subtle_.”

“In lieu of that, Miss Romanoff, we’re paid to get answers. Which I have.” Sharon paused in her cleaning and leaned her backside against the edge of the vanity. “One of Shaw’s buildings that he rents out isn’t up to code. The safety inspector has been breathing down his neck about one with faulty support beams, loose floorboards, a broken stair railing… the place on Cooper Street, for example.”

“Cooper Street?” Natasha shuddered. “Father used to do business with a man in that old place. Might as well call it bedlam.”

“I learned quite a bit from my trespassing.”

“You said you weren’t trespassing, Barton.”

“Investigating. Trespassing. Never you mind. Let me finish my report.”

“We’re calling this a report…” Sharon wrinkled her nose and smirked at him, waving him on.

“Shaw’s solicitors and accountant have cooked the books, and he has insured the building for a pretty penny. He keeps tight rein on his tenants, certainly, not to damage the property. If they so much as smudge the walls, he makes them pay dearly for it, even though he doesn’t maintain the condition properly himself.”

“Insurance.” Natasha mulled this.

“That would indicate that he cares about the state of the building, wouldn’t it?” Sharon said.

“No. He cares about the loss of income in the case of an accident.”

“An accident.” Natasha’s voice was blank.

“You could guess what-” Clint found himself cut off by Natasha’s hand lifted in the air.

“I need some air.”

“Natasha-” Sharon looked confused, but Clint’s expression shifted to one of sympathy.

“Let her go,” he murmured as Nat hurried out of the apartment, closing the door more firmly behind herself than she needed to.

Sharon continued to clean. Clint resumed Nat’s work of searching the apartment. 

He opened the jewelry box and huffed. “Well, now. Look at this. Haven’t seen one of these for a while.”

“It’s a jewelry box, Clint. It holds jewelry.”

“Aren’t we feeling droll today, Miss Carter. No. I mean, this little thing in the bottom.”

“What thing in the bottom?”

“The bottom. It’s false. It has a little hiding space in it.” He demonstrated it by triggering a small latch hidden in the velvet lining. “There we are.”

They both peered down into it as he lifted out a piece of folded paper. “That looks important.”

They unfolded it, and his blue eyes scanned the words.

“This,” he mentioned, “looks suspiciously like an insurance policy.”

“Who signed off on it? Shaw?”

“Uh-huh.” Clint eyed the sharp, scratchy signature. “Wonder if he used blood when he put his name on this?”

“Why is it in Amara’s box?”

“Gallio wouldn’t need to keep this in his home.”

“Why would it interest Amara?”

“We don’t know what she knows about Gallio’s finances. She knows he has deep pockets. She might not know how they got that way.”

“It’s her jewelry box! She would have to know about this!”

They both shared a look.

“Would she?” Clint wondered.

 

*

Natasha came back a few minutes later, stoic and reserved. They finished their cleaning, and Clint told them, “I had better make myself scarce.”

“Fly away, little bird,” Sharon told him.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s… I’m sorry. Never mind me, I seem to have lost my wits today.”

“No. You’ve found your wit all morning long,” Natasha told her. “I’ve certainly found it.”

“How have you found it?” Sharon raised a brow.

“Irresistible.”

Clint coughed and excused himself. “Wouldn’t be fitting for me to show up uninvited in an unmarried woman’s apartment. And… goodbye.” Like Natasha, he closed the door more hastily and loudly than etiquette dictated. Nat kept her eyes down as they finished righting the apartment. The furniture smelled of cleaning wax, and the floors shone. 

Amara arrived back with her sister in tow. “Ladies, this is Illyana, my sister.” She was just as stunningly blonde as Amara, but there was something cool and calculating in her blue eyes. She didn’t offer her hand to clasp.

“Charmed,” she told them.

“Well. I hope it meets your standards,” Natasha told Amara.”

“It smells fresh. You’ve done nicely. Here, let me give you your money.” Illyana glanced about, running her fingertip over the dusted vanity to check the quality of the work. Sharon and Natasha tried to keep the hint of offense taken from their faces. Amara fished a couple of coins from a small box in the kitchen and handed them over.

“I hope you will call on me again.”

“Marcus sent them, you said?” Illyana pressed.

“Er, no,” Amara mentioned. 

“We work quite a bit by word of mouth,” Natasha told her.

“Whose mouth?” Illyana’s brows drew together.

“Oh. Here and there. All right. Here’s your key. We must really be going.” Natasha and Sharon grabbed their cleaning items and ducked out, fighting the urge to quicken their steps until they were two blocks down the street, in case the sisters were watching them.

“Well. That was unnerving,” Sharon said.

“What? Having to cobble together answers for the sister?”

“Just having her stare at me. There was something dead in her eyes.”

“Not dead. Canny. There is something about her that reminds me of Selene. Certainly more than Amara ever would.”

Sharon shuddered. “I hope never to run into her in a parlor room.”

“Not Selene’s parlor, at any rate.”

“Thank goodness.”

They went back to the office and treated themselves to some tea, despite Natasha’s wish for coffee.

“Keep yourself in the habit of tea,” Sharon reminded her. “Cultivate a taste for it. It helps to be well-versed in it when we end up at a social gathering.”

“Mother preferred it. She always served it with small sweets. I miss her, but I do not miss her oolong.”

“How about jasmine?”

“No.” Natasha made a face. Sharon smiled.

“Lapsang souchong?”

“Even worse.”

“Chamomile?”

“It tastes like dirty water. Sugar doesn’t help it.”

“Black tea?”

“I’d rather have black coffee.”

Sharon shook her head, face filled with silent laughter as she lifted her cup to her lips.

“You’ll never make a true lady out of me, I’m afraid.”

“You’re already the kind of woman that I admire very much, Natasha.”

Natasha’s eyes swung down to the floor, but the pleased little smile on her lips didn’t drop.

“There’s not much to admire.”

Sharon set down the cup and rose from her seat. She approached Natasha, bringing with her that scent of lavender and cloves again. Natasha’s heart pounded with her proximity. “You’re remarkable, Natasha.”

“I’m not like Amara. I’m not sweet.”

“That isn’t sweetness. She’s accommodating. And she’s soft. Men like softness in their women, Natasha, but sometimes, women prefer strength and wit in the women they keep in their confidences.”

“You keep me in your confidences?”

“Of course. And you have your own sweetness. You’re genuine.”

“I’ve made a living of being somewhat dishonest in order to discover the truth. Spying. Trespassing. Eavesdropping. Soliciting gossip. Frequenting the wrong places or infiltrating the right ones.”

“Sounds like a fine time.”

“Yet, you’ll keep me in your confidences.”

“I’d follow you into bedlam.”

“Even if I’m nothing like the Amaras of society.”

“Especially because you aren’t. And why are we talking about Amara?”

Natasha opened her mouth, then closed it. A hot, unwelcome blush crept over her fair cheeks, and her eyes flitted away.

Sharon’s fingers lifted themselves to her chin, gently tipping it up, making Natasha meet her gaze. “Tell me why. Please?”

“It’s. She’s.” She tried to hold back the words, but her lips formed them for her anyway. “You told her that the pink suited her.”

“Do you care for pink?”

“No. I loathe it.”

“Good. It’s pleasant on you. But it doesn’t show the world your boldness.” 

“Not everyone cares for boldness.”

“I know you haven’t known me for long, Natasha, but I’m not ‘everybody.’”

Natasha swallowed. Sharon’s brown eyes, deep and dark as chocolate, were roving over Natasha’s face, taking it in as though she had never seen her before.

“You’re… not looking for a husband to roast a chicken for?”

“It’s never been one of my goals, Natasha. I wouldn’t make a good wife to a man, because I couldn’t give one my heart. At the most, perhaps friendship, like I have Clint.”

“A friendship with Barton isn’t a social grace or a calling card into any other circle, I’m afraid. But he’s a good man.”

“You wouldn’t roast a chicken for him, either. Or you would have, by now.”

The words were there between them, as well as the tension thrumming in the air like a living entity. Sharon touched Natasha’s face again, and small shocks lit up her stomach.

“I’m not a good cook. I can balance books and I can dance prettily, but I grow bored when listening to gentlemen’s accounts of-”

Sharon interrupted her, gently taking Natasha’s face between her smooth palms, tilting her head, and caressing her lips with hers. A kiss. Soft and warm, and making a thousand places inside Natasha light up like fireflies. Sharon’s breath steamed her lips, and Nat made a needy sound. Her hands trembled a little as they reached up to cover the backs of Sharon’s. It was heady and thrilling, this new, precious secret they shared between them. Nat’s hands slid down the length of Sharon’s slim forearms and drifted to her narrow waist. Sharon sighed in approval as she continued to kiss her, more probing caresses. Sharon’s fragrance tickled Nat’s senses, and she felt Sharon stroking her hair, smoothing back tendrils that had drifted loose from her snug chignon while they cleaned Amara’s apartment. The embrace was a revelation, and Natasha didn’t realize how she’d clung to Sharon until she withdrew. Her gaze was hazy with pleasure and something Nat couldn’t place.

“I’ve been wanting to do that. I’m sorry if I seem forward-”

“Don’t be sorry for that. I will never judge you for being forward. I’m a woman, but I’m no lady, Sharon Carter.”

“Good. Because I have a fondness for women. Bold women. And I hope you’ll forgive my temerity when I tell you I would like to kiss you again.”

Natasha’s voice was uncharacteristically breathy when she replied, “I would forgive you anything if you kiss me again, Sharon.”


End file.
